Tattoos in Perspective

You walk through the front door of the shop - the floors and most of the walls painted black, the latter adorned anything but sparsely with giant, ornate paintings, rows of flash-art-filled frames, the odd bit of taxidermy.

A small reception area sits in front of you, the computer area cluttered with pens and papers, notebooks, tiny plants, maybe a small enclosure for a lizard or insect. There’s a shelving unit nearby, loaded with logo t-shirts and books full of artwork, some of which came from the people working here, some from artists you’ve never heard of.

In the waiting area, a typical small black sofa and little clusters of usually-empty tables and chairs are placed sporadically around the room. There’s a water fountain against a wall, and an obscure statue or two placed in random corners.

Even from here, you can hear several speakers coming from different rooms in the building, all playing various types of rock music. A low chatter here and there between artist and client can be heard, at least on particularly busy days. The occasional phone ring breaks through, only for a moment or two. Any scent is merely ‘clean’ - the constant use of disinfectant to blame, and you couldn’t smell the ink if you tried. The low buzzing of machines hits your ears even above the music, and immediately you feel at home. This is, after all, your happy place.

Maybe you brought a friend, maybe you came alone. Maybe this time you are the friend. If this is your first time, you probably told several friends, a few family members, that you had an appointment; you probably excitedly showed them what you were getting, or you’ve been talking about it for weeks or months since you set up the appointment. If this is your fifth, or tenth, or fiftieth trip, you might not have mentioned it to anyone; this is just a thing you do now, after all, no different from going to the grocery store, until someone you haven’t seen in a while brings up the standard question: “Is that a new tattoo?”

Whether it is or it isn’t, you’re glad they noticed; you get tattoos for yourself, of course, but it’s always fun when they’re pointed out. Even when people question “why would you do that to yourself?” Well, why not? We’re all going to die one day, anyway - might as well have fun with it.

Sometimes the confusion, the anger, the disgust, aimed towards you from people who just simply don’t understand is part of the fun. You’ll never get how people can be so distraught, so bothered, over something that doesn’t affect them, but it’s amusing to watch their blood boil over it.

On the other hand, you’ve also made friends over your tattoos. The elderly lady your friend’s mom works with who had a fifteen minute conversation with you about how she wants to get a tiny bird on her wrist, and how she thinks your artwork is beautiful. The guy at a concert the day after you got a band-related tattoo who immediately understood the reference, after you were certain nobody ever would. The guy you see at work who used to be in the military and is near-covered, who bonded with you over ink and shared interests you wouldn’t have known about without them being so obviously displayed.

Much like music, comics, movies, certain cities, food...tattoos and artwork can be something to bond over that you can’t possibly understand unless you’re in on it. You might spend months or years planning the perfect piece, or constructing a full sleeve that blends seamlessly from piece to piece; you might have an idea on a whim and text your artist for an appointment the next day. Whether you’re spontaneous or methodical in your planning, there’s an artist to fit your needs and a village worth of people who go about it the same way you do. Tattoos have been bringing people together and making their beliefs, allegiances, and preferences as obvious as possible for thousands of years; it’s no wonder so many people are still shelling out hundreds or thousands of dollars and sitting through hours of pain just for art.

Maybe the idea that tattoos are addicting is true. If it is, what is it that makes them so hard to resist once you have one? Is it the excitement of being part of a specific group? The simplicity of collecting art that’s just one of a kind? The convenience of showing the world exactly who you are with just a few easily-visible (or even hidden) pictures? Is it just the pain itself?

Even if you have a high pain tolerance or are a straight-up masochist at heart, there’s very little denying that tattoos hurt. Is it bearable? Sure; most slight pain is bearable if it goes towards something you care about. (People still have kids after all, don’t they?) Is it still a needle digging into your eventually-sensitive skin for hours on end? Yes, and given the general aspects of self preservation and common sense, it’s also hard to argue with the people who simply don’t understand why you might put yourself through something so uncomfortable. Even harder still when that discomfort can so often go hand-in-hand with infection and disease when done incorrectly and carelessly.

But the PAIN.

It’s the worst part, as most people with tattoos will tell you. It’s also the part most of us start craving once it’s been a while between sessions. You’ll sit through a few hours, gritting your teeth and clenching all of your muscles, rethinking all of the big, colorful pieces you’ve had planned. Maybe I don’t NEED that one thing in color….maybe black and gray is fine…

You start relishing the artist taking even a few second break to get more ink, to wipe down your burning skin with that freezing, itchy paper towel, just for a moment of relief. A bathroom or smoke or lunch break means you have a few minutes to also get up, to stretch out the muscles you didn’t even realize had cramped up until you take the time to move them around. You walk around the shop, get a sip of water, run to the bathroom and try to shift clothes around while not touching the area being worked on. Daintily, carefully, you hobble back to your room and get back on the table or in the chair, excited by the progress and being certain that the break you probably didn’t ask for has done you wonders. You settle in, sure that the time away from the needle has made your fever-hot skin forget how irritated it is and that certainly it’s about to be easier. Maybe they’ll work on a different area that hasn’t been run over so many times already; maybe it’s gone numb by now.

And then the pain is back.

Maybe it isn’t the cold-sweats you had for the first few minutes of the session, and maybe the artist keeps you wrapped up in conversation just enough to let your mind waver from focusing on the needle grinding into skin that’s already been bleeding for an hour or so. Maybe it’s quiet; your artist might not be a talker, or maybe you aren’t, but you feel bad putting earbuds in because you don’t want to seem rude. Maybe the piece is in a particularly difficult area and no amount of distractions could pull you out of the turmoil.

Maybe I don’t need ALL of it colored….Mixed styles are cool now, right?

But you sit. And you suffer. And you wait. Occasionally catching glimpses and reigniting your excitement; occasionally feeling the needle in an extra-sensitive spot and rekindling your trauma.

Probably a few times during the session you’ll hear “we’re gonna hit this section up here and go in with some white highlights over here, and then take a break” or “I just have this bit of shading over here and we’ll call it a day”. Oh, the hope. The light at the end of the tunnel. Sweet relief.

And then it’s another 25 minutes of scraping (which always feels like four hours when you’ve had FREEDOM dangled in front of your face), that low, humming buzz you were so excited about when you stepped in the shop taunting you with every second that drags by.

But then it’s over, and just like that you’re feeling that icy towel over your sensitive skin one last time. Pulling your aching, tight limbs off the bench and stumbling towards the mirror while your nerves put themselves back together, admiring your new piece even as it’s still bleeding, still bright with newly-saturated colors that will fade in mere days. Then the goo; the thin, silky layer of ointment rubbed over red, angry skin, before the plastic wrap is taped on. (Can’t wait to peel that off the little hairs it got stuck to later.)

You take a sip of your water, probably a little shaky from the ordeal, a jacket or extra shirt draped over your shoulder, hair disheveled. You figure out payment (hopefully you brought cash to avoid the card fees, but you’ll figure it out), nod knowingly at the safety and healing reminders. You thank your artist - you love this thing that’s a part of you now, of course - and joke about how the rest of your week is going to suck if the tattoo is in a high-use area because you never take enough time off work.

And then you make another appointment.